The Venice conspiracy

Pesna claps a hand on the finely robed shoulder of Kavie. 'She is clever, is she not?' He turns back to Tetia. 'I had come here to tell your husband that he is no longer fit to be our netsvis. That his blindness is a divine act of displeasure from the gods and that once the temple is completed he and his wife – you – should seek pastures outside the walls of our settlement. But this-' he points at the clay, 'this is the most striking art I have ever seen. My home is filled with beauty, originality, curiosity – the rarest that Greek and Etruscan artists can muster – and this piece belongs there. Indeed, your own husband told me I should acquire more spiritual works.' He takes one final, stooping look at the clay. 'To me – this is a positive sign from the deities – a sign that its creator and her husband should also remain near to me. Protected by me. Patronised by me.'

He moves closer to Tetia. Close enough for her to smell old meat and rough wine on his breath. Close enough for him to hold her chin between his manicured thumb and forefinger and make a bead of sweat roll down her brow.

'So what is it be, young Tetia? Will you make your peace with the gods and my netsvis? And tomorrow – when I assume you have finished this divine work – will you bring it to me? Or will you take your blind and useless husband and leave for ever?'

CHAPTER 19

Present Day Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice 'How creepy!' Tina walks from the bathroom in her hotel robe and sits at the dressing table. 'I've never been to a morgue. Actually, I've never even seen a dead body – except on Six Feet Under. You think you can ring your new cop friends and ask if I can tag along?'

Tom stares at her reflection in the large oak-framed vanity mirror. 'You're joking, right?'

'No. Not at all. I'm curious. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but it really would be something to write a piece on a murder investigation in Venice.' She picks up a brush and starts to work it through her wet hair.

'I thought you were a travel writer.'

'I am. But I'm a writer. A journalist. I'll cover cookery, sport, fashion – even murder, if the cheque is big enough.'

Without thinking, Tom finds himself standing directly behind her, lifting her hair, enjoying the feel of it. 'Oh, so this is now a money-making opportunity?'

'Yeah. Of course it is.' She smiles at him in the mirror, and puts a hand up to touch his on her shoulder. 'That's how we strange folk out here – the poor souls on the other side of the church walls – have to live. We do things, and then people give us money for doing them.'

Tom drops his hands from her hair, looks curiously at her. 'You think priests don't work? You don't know when you've got it made. An average parish priest works close to a hundred hours a week. I was pretty much on call twenty-four seven.'

Tina puts her brush down. 'Doing what?'

He gives her an exasperated look.

'No, go on, tell me, I'm interested. What is there to do, besides patter out a pound of prayers and croak along to some very bad karaoke songs – sorry, hymns – in return for a plate of tips at the end of each performance?'

'You're being deliberately provocative, right?'

She smiles at him. 'Right. You're getting the hang of it now. That's what we women – especially us wicked women journalists – do. We like to be pro-voc-ative.'

Tom can't help but smile back. 'But, am I also right in detecting that you're not religious? You're not a believer – are you?'

'Sorry. No, I'm not. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I have lived thirty-two years and I confess I don't believe one fucking word of it. I think all churches are a con. All religions are businesses. And all those damned TV preachers asking for my money should be locked in one big cell so they can bore each other to a slow and painful death.'

'The last bit I might go along with. The rest, well, we're going to have to agree to differ.'

Tina goes silent for a second. She thinks it's best to bite her tongue. But then the journalist in her blows up. 'How can you defend religion after you turned your own back on it? Threw in the towel and said, "I'm outta here, I don't believe any more."' She looks at him in the mirror and sees she's hit a nerve. 'Listen, I think it's a good thing you did. Otherwise you wouldn't be here in my room, but-'

He cuts her off. 'Tina, I didn't quit believing in God. I quit believing in myself. There's a difference.'

'Then believe more in yourself.' She swivels sideward so she can see him properly. 'I for one believe much more in you than I ever will in any god.' She puts out her hands and takes hold of his. 'Let's not fight about this stuff. Life's too short.'

He kisses the top of her head. 'I'm sorry. I'm a bit on edge. You know – I came here to get away from things. Death, to be precise. I came to Venice to get away from death. And here I am, up to my post-dog-collared neck in a murder enquiry.'

Tina stands up next to him. 'Tom, you're doing good. You're helping. Doing the right things. That makes you feel better, doesn't it?'

He forces a smile. 'Sure, but I can't forget that "doing good" is what got me into a very bad place.'

Tina wonders why men – all men – even ex-priests, apparently – are such pessimists when it comes to personal issues. 'Listen, you have a choice here. Say no to the damned Carabinieri and their Rocky Horror Morgue Show.' She points to the bedside phone. 'Ring them up and say, "Sorry, I just can't do it."'

'I can't do that.'

She puts her hands on his waist. 'I know you can't.'

He looks amused. 'So why suggest it?'

'Because' – Tina can't help but laugh – 'because it's the way women get men to realise that they're doing the right thing.'

He frowns lightly. 'Are women really that tricky?'

Her face lights up. 'Oh, honey, you have so much to learn.'

He lifts her wet hair again, kisses her lightly on the mouth, then slides his hands inside the front of her robe. 'Then teach me.'

CAPITOLO XVI 666 BC

Larthuza's Hut, Atmanta Larthuza the Healer is hardly an advertisement for good health.

Today he is looking all of his many years. His bones are hurting, his head pounding and his hands shaking. On top of all that, his memory is nothing like it used to be.

'Where is it?' Larthuza angrily scratches a straggly nest of white hair that is indistinguishable from his long, matted beard. He moves stacks of jars, some large, some small, some so old he cannot remember what he put in them. 'Aaah! I know, I know!' His toothless mouth breaks into a wide crescent of a smile. Barely a stride away from where Teucer's parents are sitting at their son's bedside stands a small, narrow-bodied amphora. One of its handles has broken off. It is undecorated but well used and covered in oily finger marks. 'I remember now, I put it here, closest to Teucer so I would not get it mixed up with the other medications.'

'A shame you do not have a potion to stop forgetfulness,' jokes Venthi.

His wife pushes his shoulder playfully. 'Then, husband, you should ask Larthuza for a big jug for yourself.'

The old healer extends the pot in his hands as if he is presenting a prize of Olympian magnitude. 'This is the finest oil of rough bindweed.' He glances back towards his many rows of lotions, potions and drugs. 'The last I have… I think.' He places it gently into the slack-skinned hands of Larcia, a round-faced, round-bodied woman with hair almost as white as his own. 'The oil must be applied with feathered gentleness. Let it roll over the lesions and then wipe it away with a touch lighter than a sun-kissed cloud.'

Venthi looks around the hut. 'Larthuza, do you know where Tetia is?'

The healer shakes his head. 'An errand of some sort, she said.'

'She is in her husband's home.' The answer comes from a stranger's voice. 'Forgive the intrusion. I am Kavie, counsel to the noble Pesna.'

The magistrate follows, a pace behind him. 'We have come to see our netsvis. To wish him well for a speedy recovery.'

Venthi stands like a wall. He is a full head and shoulders taller than anyone in the room. A former Etruscan soldier, he'd won his lands and freedom through his bravery. Right now, his instincts tell him he is being visited by men more likely to be enemies than allies. 'You are too generous, noble friends. A messenger would have sufficed. I fear my son is too sick to properly appreciate your presence.'